Last week, after the second blood draw, Sean and I went to Wal-Mart to get a few things that we needed and a few things we didn’t. He had been such a brave soldier through the whole ordeal — much better than mommy — that I wanted to let him pick out a new Lightning McQueen diecast car or something frivolous.
Because it was a fasting blood draw, we had to yank him out of bed at dark thirty in the morning. Consequently it was now the mid-afternoon and he was still wearing what he had on first thing in the morning when we put him in the car – pale blue long john pajamas, slippers with big snowman heads on the toes and a black and orange Halloween sweatshirt that says “Boo!” on the front and crazy rock star hair.
Apparently age four is when self-awareness starts to kick in because as we were getting out of the car, he stopped and looked down at himself. He was mortified. With a hand gesture that swept from his shoulder down to his knees, he cried, “Oh no! I can’t wear this to the store!”
About that time a sizeable lady about my age scuffed by in slippers and what appeared to be pajama bottoms.
I laughed to myself. I wanted to say, “You know what Sean, you are right. You cannot wear pajamas to the store. It is just not right. We need to go home and change.”
I was relieved to know that even though Sean is in the Wal-Mart, he is not of the Wal-Mart.